


The Unknown Road Still Marching

by Moonfishgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, PTSD John, Sensitive!Sherlock, Soldier!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3473138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonfishgirl/pseuds/Moonfishgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Because the nightmares take on a reality of their own, Inspector, and when that reality comes true then the only recourse for some is to join it.”</p><p>Or: a thunderstorm brings out the worst in Soldier!John and the best in Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I.  
Nearly six thousand kilometers from Afghanistan, and John Watson was crouched against the wall with a gun in his hand before the last of the explosion had even finished reverberating around the room. 

From years of training – and, more significantly, experience – he automatically quieted his breathing and slowed his heart rate, body utterly still in the dark, quiet room, eyes scanning for any hint of movement. Nothing. His eyes already adjusting, seeking a human form in any of the shadows lurking in the corners, the quiver of a single muscle that betray the position of an insurgent.

Dark inside, the faintest hints of light flickering in; he was indoors, and perhaps it was day outside. But the background noise from outside was constant, pervasive – a sandstorm? Was he separated from his platoon? Were they under attack and, more importantly, were there any injured?

Holding the gun rock-steady in his right hand, he allowed his left to creep slowly across his hip, seeking his med-pack. Gone. Damn! He must have lost it in… in – 

The sudden searing burst of light did not frighten him so much as it threw him into action: he hurled himself from his crouch beneath the window to the furthest corner, behind the door, his compact and muscular body tucking into a roll across the floorboards and coming up back on his feet, his spine now backed into the corner, gun still level and steady. 

His shoulder burned like hell though, when had that started? Had he himself been hurt?

As if on cue, a second explosion tore through the building, rattling the furniture around him, rattling the glass in the windowpanes.

Glass in the windowpanes? And outside, was that a…streetlamp?

Footsteps on the stairs. And in his nose, the smell of …dust…rain…not sand. Someone in the hall. Realizing that all was not as it seemed, he still slid the safety catch off, muscle memory acting without ever having to look at the weapon in his fist, and listened. Blocked out the pain, the discomfort, his heartbeat, and listened. Deadly still.

“Watson.”

He sucked in a breath, listened. 

“Watson.” The voice was hushed, but insistent. “It’s Holmes. Open the door.” 

Slowly the line of Watson’s body relaxed, one muscle at a time, from his neck to his calves, and slowly he forced himself to stand. “Holmes.”

It came out more of a croak, and he desperately tried to wet dry lips. “Holmes…”

Gentler, now: “I’m coming in now, Watson.” The voice was close, separated from him by thin wood, and he stiffened, realizing he had never relaxed his grip on the gun. The doorknob jiggled, turned, and the lock slipped from its catch. The sudden appearance of a hand around the frame, right by Watson’s face, jarred him into motion again – instinct took over – he caught the wrist, threw his weight, ignored the burning pain his shoulder again, lifted the gun and fired, point-blank range.

The clip clicked. Empty.

He looked up into the dark, dark eyes of Sherlock Holmes, who was standing stock-still, barely breathing, and then John Watson fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

II.  
The next explosion rocked him back into action – he was already rolling to his feet and reaching for his gun when he felt the hand on his shoulder.

“Watson, it’s Holmes. You’re in London, in England. Can you hear me?”

Taking a deep breath, John lay back against the pillow that had been propped behind his head. “Holmes.”

“Yes.” Satisfied by the response, his flatmate patted his shoulder and held up a glass of water. “Can you drink this?”

“Yes, of course I –” John made to sit up but his head spun and he fell back with a groan; again his shoulder burned. “What in hell is going on? Why,” he glanced around. “Why am I on the floor? Why are you handing me water in the middle of the –” His searching gaze fell on the gun, and his eyes widened. Coldness settled into his stomach. “Oh.”

Holmes cleared his throat, ignoring the wordless, beseeching look that was now turned to him. “The water, John. Drink it please.”

Watson pulled himself up and reached for the glass; his hand shook so much as he brought it to his lips that Holmes unobtrusively placed his fingers at the bottom, steadying it as John drank. He had nearly finished when there was another intense burst of light, and John dumped the rest of the contents on his lap. “Christ!” 

Holmes took the glass. “I doubt he has anything to do with this.” Setting it aside, near the gun, he placed bracing hands on his flatmate’s shoulders. “John –” 

The next explosion took them both by surprise, and Holmes even more when John hurled himself up from the floor, and the next second had Holmes pinned to the boards beneath him. They were pressed so close that Holmes could feel the unnatural stillness of the other man’s body; could feel the exact moment when that body began to shake. 

“Watson.” Uncharacteristically at a loss, he smoothed a reassuring hand down John’s back, feeling the tremors slowly intensify. “Watson, we’re on Baker Street. We’re having a thunderstorm.”

“Right.” John’s face was turned away, towards the window, and he felt Holmes’ breath ghost across his cheek. He rolled off his flatmate but did not take his hand from the lean chest. “Yes. Right. I just – I’m sorry.” 

“No need.” Holmes sat up and slowly, cautiously, put a hand up to John’s shoulder, recoiling when John flinched hard. “Did you hurt your scar?”

“My –” Watson jerked the neck of his T-shirt open and stared down at the small, purple, ropy lines blossoming across his left shoulder. No wonder the roll across the hardwood floor had awakened so much pain. Something dropped onto the shirt, a dark spot, and then another, and for a split second he wondered if he was bleeding somewhere. It took a few minutes before he realized that he was crying. 

Holmes dropped his gaze, not knowing how to express that for the soldier, there should be no shame in tears. Instead, he reached out slowly and felt for Watson’s pulse. It was high, thready, and Watson’s skin was growing clammy. The shaking had not stopped, and was instead growing worse. “John,” he said lowly, and watched his flatmate’s eyes jump to his. “Are you alright?”

“No.” The casualness of the tone made Holmes blink. Watson tugged the shirt back into place, glanced toward the gun, and shoved himself backwards, back into the corner behind the door, his back against the wall. “I’m sorry I woke you. You can go back to bed now.” He paused. “Thank you for the water.”  
“What, leave? You wish me to leave?”

There was silence. John had pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He wasn’t looking at Holmes. Another burst of lightning and he dropped his face into the dark space created by his raised arms. 

Holmes went to the bed and retrieved the topmost quilt. Speaking lowly and clearly, he approached John slowly, as he would a cornered animal. “John, you’re going into shock. I’m going to put a blanket around you.” There was no response. Sinking to his knees, Holmes gently spread the quilt across the soldier’s shaking back, and when John did not look up, left his arm around the other man’s shoulders. “Please say something.”

“What would you have me say?” The words were muffled. “I woke you up in the middle of the night to watch me cry like a child, because of a thunderstorm?”

“Was there a dream, too?”

A shaky breath. “Yes. I won’t bother asking how you knew.”

“Lucky guess.”

Watson peeked up at him. “You don’t need luck.”

“You flatter me.”

“I observe you.”

Holmes paused, filing that one away for later. His knees began to ache, and he settled into a seated position, pressed against his flatmate, one arm still around John’s shoulders. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

A forced sound that might have almost been mistaken for a laugh. “No.”

Holmes opened his mouth to respond when thunder rolled into the room again, and John Watson buried himself in the consulting detective’s side, shuddering.   
Holmes smoothed John’s hair with the hand not around his shoulders. “You’re safe here, it’s alright,” he murmured, still out of his depth.

“You’re not.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Holmes, if that gun had been loaded –”

“It’s not.”

“Yes, but –”

“It’s not. John, forget it.”

“It’s not because I unloaded it. I keep it unloaded at all times. Because I know what – I know what I’m like. I know what could happen, what I could… do.”  
Holmes exhaled softly and dropped his cheek to rest atop John’s head. “It’s not your fault.”

“The hell it isn’t!” John sat up sharply, dislodging Holmes’ hands. “I could have killed you. They’d have scraped you off the walls and brought you out in a bucket, at this range. I shouldn’t be here, I’m not safe, there’s so much wrong with me. I’m a danger to you. I’m messed up, Holmes, don’t you see that?”

The tears had long dried, but the self-recrimination was sharp, clear, and ugly. Very slowly, Holmes lifted his hand to John’s wrist, felt for his pulse. “Everything is going to be alright, John, just take a deep breath.”

John snorted. “The hell it will.” He tipped his head back and let it thump against the wall behind him. “You can go now. Thanks for the water.”

“I’m not leaving.”

"What? Why not? It’s the middle of the night and your stupid, damaged flatmate is up to his crazed war antics and woke you up because –”

“You’re not damaged, John.”

John shot him a look that said clearly, bullshit.

“You’re not. And I’m already here, and I’m not leaving. You. I’m not leaving you. Here. Like this. Like. Hmmm.” Holmes blew out a breath, frustrated with himself. Raising his gaze to try again, his eyes locked with Watson’s, and he could not think of a single thing to say.

A moment of silence stretched out between them, and then John said slowly, “A sandstorm.” Holmes nodded in encouragement, and John went on. “Sandstorm. Sand everywhere, in our clothes, our food, our eyes and ears and noses. We dug out these pits – called them fighting holes – we slept in them between watches. Everything was grey, brown, empty.” He was looking across the room now, but not seeing it. “The houses – the buildings – bricks and mud, everything falling apart, people sleeping in the streets, everything was destroyed. Mosul, Baghdad, Fallujah.” He shuddered. “Fallujah.”

Holmes reached out tentatively for John’s hand, arms still crossed around his knees. To his surprise, John took it. His fingers were cold and clammy, but they wrapped around Holmes’ warmer ones and held on as he continued to speak.

“In the hospital we set up beds among the rubble. Pallets, of any soft material we could find. Hung the IV bags off broken pieces of the walls. I had soldiers with minor injuries sitting lined up in the hall. When there was room, and I had time, the locals came in too. When –” he nearly laughed again. “There was no room. I never had time. The locals came in anyway. I treated everything.” Now he was looking into his flatmate’s face. “Everything. Compound fractures, gangrene from botched amputations, open sores, distended organs from lack of nutrition, bullet wounds, children dying of diarrhea. Diarrhea, Holmes, do you have any idea how easy that is to treat? In England? You hardly need to go into the surgery for that. 

“In Fallujah? Dead in two days.”

Lightning arced across the sky again, and Holmes and Watson both winced. There was a pause, and Holmes squeezed encouragingly at Watson’s hand, urging him to continue. 

Watson sighed, thumped his head a few times against the wall, rolled his shoulders minutely. “Well. One minute I was on scene of an IED, the next minute I was thrown across the road with a bullet lodged in my anterior deltoid/rear scapular seam. The first one passed higher, through my trapezius posterior triangle. Exited just below my collarbone.” John gestured vaguely at his left shoulder. “That.”

“You’re a brave man, John Watson.”

The words were out before Holmes had even registered them in his thoughts. John glanced at him, and Holmes was surprised to see amusement in his gaze. “Oh indeed. Very much so. All brave men hide in the corner during thunderstorms.”

“All soldiers do.”

John dropped his gaze. “…right.” His voice was soft, and most of the frustration had gone out of it, but it was still very, very unhappy.

Holmes gently felt for his pulse again, and saw John try to smile. “I know what you’re doing.” 

“And?”

“I’m not in shock.” Any more.

“And?”

John inhaled. “Thank you.”

“For checking your pulse?”

“No, for –” A sigh this time. “Yes. That. This, all of this. Thanks.”

Holmes shrugged with a brevity he did not feel. “Of course.” 

The roll of thunder was less intense now, farther away, but John still tensed minutely next to Holmes. He tipped his head back against the wall again. “You should go back to bed.”

“Still trying to drive me out, are you?”

“I – no. Well. Not really.” 

“Then let me stay.”

John looked up and their eyes met again. Very quietly, he said, “all right.” 

“The storm seems to be abating.”

“‘Far, far out of reach, / studded, breaking out, the eternal stars.’”

Holmes cocked his head. “Spouting poetry, Watson?”

“Whitman. Stole a pamphlet from the Red Cross in Mosul. ‘The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms, the yard outside also fill’d.’ I read it cover to cover, day after day.” He paused. “Come to think of it, I’m sure it came back with me. Somewhere…”

The next flash of lightning was dimmer; it glinted off the gun, still lying empty in the center of the floor. John leaned forward, the quilt slipping off his shoulders, to retrieve it; falling short, he climbed onto his knees and, bracing himself on his good arm, reached out and tenderly lifted the cold metal. Holmes could not help but observe the line of his flatmate’s body in the grey, pre-dawn light: the still-muscular shoulders, the slope of his strong back beneath the T-shirt, the trim waist. Rather than sit down again, John climbed to his feet and dropped the gun into his open bedside drawer and nudged the drawer closed. “Well, that’s that…”

Turning, he expected to help Holmes up off the floor; instead, his flatmate was already standing, quilt in his arms. Wordlessly he stepped forward and wrapped the comforting material around the soldier, wrapped his arms around the soldier, paused. Did not withdraw. 

In that moment John’s heartbeat was louder than the thunder. He held his breath for a single moment, waiting. Holmes had been acting differently, tonight, especially considering the circumstances. John half expected him to ask to have a cup of tea made. But by some instinct, he held still, waiting to see what the taller man would do. And, another part of him admitted, it felt good to be enfolded in Holmes’ arms. Warm, almost safe.

“Watson. You need rest.” Holmes was stalling, though for what, he couldn’t say.

“I…don’t usually go back to sleep, after…”

Holmes glanced down; Watson’s face was tuned into his shoulder. “This happens often?”

John shrugged one shoulder – the one that didn’t hurt – a noncommittal, jerky movement. “I guess.” He felt Holmes draw a breath, as if to speak, but instead the taller   
man nudged his flatmate backwards, towards the bed. When they reached it John turned and climbed back into the twisted sheets; reaching out to smooth his blanket, noticed that his hands still shook. He stared at them. “Damn.”

If Holmes heard, he did not comment. Rather he arranged the quilt over Watson’s body, smoothed it slowly, deliberately. And then, as if reaching some conclusion, set his hip awkwardly down by Watson’s, as though to look into the other man’s face. Watson moved, to give his flatmate more room to perch, and instead Holmes surprised them both by laying out full-length. 

Very quietly: “Sherlock?”

“I…I cannot…how can you sleep if you are cold, John…”

John lifted the edge of the quilt and Holmes slipped beneath it, laying atop the blankets, by John’s side. He tentatively slipped an arm across John’s abdomen but did not move too close to the sore shoulder. There was silence as both men’s bodies relaxed incrementally. Thunder rumbled again, distant now, but John was lulled into a sense of security by the warm body at his side. Exhausted by the exertion of energy, the flashback, the panic, the shock, the retelling of difficult memories, he settled slowly into the sense of rightness, the way Holmes’ breathing was reassuring rather than alarming. Comrades-in-arms. 

And if, as he dozed in the last sleepy stages of consciousness, cocooned in the warm arms of peaceful, oblivious sleep, he felt warm lips brush his temple in a clear gesture of comfort and affection – he simply accepted what was offered, and fell.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

            The day that followed the storm dawned overcast but bright: the air was clear and clean. Watson woke better rested than he had felt in a long time; but he woke naturally, without his alarm clock, and that was enough to arouse his suspicion. Rolling to his bedside table he picked up a note scribbled out in Holmes’ scrawl:

            _The surgery is aware that you will be late, if you come in at all. I suggest not at all. Go back to sleep._

            Chuckling to himself, John glanced at the clock – gone half nine – and swung himself out of bed. His shoulder tightened painfully, and as he rubbed at it, he noticed the empty water glass on the table. Last night came back like a bruise from a blow.

            _Christ_. Holmes could be dead right now. Dead from his hand. Dead from his traumatized brain. Dead from – _Holmes tucked him into bed last night. Then tucked himself in next to John._

            Oh hell.

            Dressing carefully, aware of aches and pains across his shoulders and back (you’re not a young recruit any more, Watson), he opened the door and made his way downstairs.

            Holmes was nowhere to be found in the living room, but John followed his nose to the kitchen, where the kettle was boiling and two mugs sat ready on the counter (next to simmering beakers). He blinked in surprise. Pieces of toast leapt up from the toaster, and Holmes appeared from the direction of the refrigerator, knife in hand to butter them.

            “Good morning.”

            Holmes looked up, assessed him even as he pretended to smile. Ached as he noticed the smudges like bruises under John’s exhausted eyes. “Hello, old boy. Feeling any better?”

            Had he not been a military man, John would have squirmed. As it was, he waved a hand towards the tea mugs. “How did you know I was up? Were you going to bring me tea in bed, then?”

            Holmes dropped his gaze to the task at hand, and John blinked again, astonished. He was? “Erm, should I go back up, then? Don’t want to spoil the effect.”

            Holmes did smile this time. “Too late; you’ve ruined it. You can pour your own, then.”

            That was more like it. John limped past him into the kitchen, careful to avoid the beakers, poured hot water over the teabags. The silence hung heavy around him as he struggled for an opening line. ‘About last night’ didn’t begin to cover it. ‘I’m sorry I almost shot you’ was laughable.

            He turned and followed Holmes back into the living room; he looked up at his flatmate’s back as Holmes set down his breakfast and picked up a battered pamphlet, stained in old, dark brown blood. “I found this in the bookshelf this morning,” he commented casually.

            John set his mug down before he could drop it and moved forward before he could think. “I nearly killed you. I could have.” He slid his arms around Holmes and dropped his forehead against the taller man’s spine. Holmes stiffened at his touch.

            _Shit, shit, shit. That was a precursor to: you’re deranged, and I’ll help you collect your things, you nutter._

“I – I’m so sorry…” John disengaged his arms and Holmes began to struggle. Thinking his flatmate to seek escape, John backed away, but Holmes caught his bicep, turned in his arms, and responded with an embrace of his own. “Oh, John.”

            The breath left John’s lungs in a rush as Holmes turned his head and pressed his lips to John’s temple again. “You have no need to apologize. No need at all. ‘A march in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown, / A road through heavy wood with muffled steps in the darkness.’” He swallowed. “John, I cannot begin to understand, but you do me honor with your trust.”

            “Trust?? I would have shot you!!”

            “You didn’t. And in the future we will remove the possibility.”

            “I always keep the gun unloaded for precisely that reason, Holmes –”

            “You cannot shoot me if I am already there.”

            John twisted, took a big step backwards. “If you’re what?”

            Holmes froze, his mouth open to respond. Shut it. Trepidation in his dark eyes.

            Slowly: “Holmes…are you suggesting…”

            Quickly: “Tell me: do the nightmares come if you do not sleep alone?”

            A pause. “I don’t know.”

            They stared at each other, ex-Army doctor and consulting detective, while the tea cooled in its cups and the daylight filtered in through closed shades. Finally Holmes dropped his gaze. “I have misspoken and overstepped myself. I – I am gratified that you are recovered, and – well –”

            “I recovered because of you.” John was not in the mood for subtlety. Some part of him longed for the simple peace and comfort of that embrace. “Sherlock, I’m a wreck. If you want me to go, and deal with my flashbacks somewhere else, I will. This isn’t your problem. You don’t need to make a plan to ‘remove the possibility’ because I should have done that ages ago. I should –”

            “You shot a man for me.”

            “Well. Yes.”

            “Your symptoms are not unusual, John, nor are they unsettling. In fact, I would be far more concerned for your psyche if you did not experience them.”

            “This physician cannot heal himself, Holmes.” John gave a small, sad smile. “My symptoms mark me. Set me apart and remind me of a weakness, a brokenness I cannot fix. I am neither your patient nor your responsibility. They…I…should not be anyone’s. I should not be.” He looked down at his socks. “I’d considered that.”

            “Considered what?”

            “Not being anyone’s problem. Not…being.”

            Strong hands gripped his shoulders; John hissed in pain and the fingers slid down to his biceps, fingers flexing anxiously against the muscle. John looked up into Holmes’ pale face. “What are you talking about?? Explain yourself at once!”

            John tried to shrug. “It doesn’t matter. It’s way in the past.”

            “Clearly not.”

            “Come off it, Holmes! Every soldier contemplates suicide! At least once! I thought you just said my symptoms are not unsettling?”

            “It’s quite possible that I was wrong.”

            “There’s one for the records.”

            “This isn’t funny.”

            “It is to me. I – have to laugh at it, Holmes. Otherwise it stays with me.”

            “You still think about it??”

            “Not…really….not anymore.”

            “Then I will not sleep, but will sit up in your bed all night and keep vigil!”

            “…in my bed, Holmes?”

            It was a strange thing to watch the great detective fumble. He released John’s arms, took a careful step back. “In – in your room, Watson, whatever. Should the occasion arise, I will be, um, stationed appropriately; the semantics do not matter.” He lifted a careless hand, seeking an artless gesture, which was lost in his awkward confusion.

            “You’ve kissed me twice now.”

            Holmes actually blushed, faintly. “On the head, it hardly matters.”

            “It does matter.”

            “I’m sure your mother used to do the same.”

            “This is different.”

            “Hardly, Watson, and it does not bear debating. Your tea’s gone cold.”

            “So has yours. It’s different, to me.”

            “Shouldn’t be.”

            “It is.”

            “Is not.”

            “Is too!  Wait –seriously, Sherlock? I’m standing here waiting for you to actually kiss me, and you want to talk about my tea getting cold?”

            This time Sherlock Holmes’ mouth gaped open for a heartbeat before he closed it with a snap, stepped forward decisively, and kissed John Watson quickly, briefly on the mouth.

            “There. Wasn’t so hard to ask for, was it, then?”

            “You’re insufferable.”

            “Because I’m right.”

            “You’re evading.”

            “No such thing.”

            “Evading very hard.”

            “Watson, if you do not cease this nonsense –”

            John chuckled to himself, slid his hands over Holmes’ stubbly jaw, up into his mess of curls, and leaned in closer, rubbing closed lips over closed lips until Holmes sighed and moved closer, his hands tentatively going to John’s waist. John took that opportunity to flick his tongue over Holmes’ bottom lip, twice, then tilt his head and scrape gently with his teeth.

            Those soft, wet flicks sparked electricity in Holmes, shooting across every nerve ending, centering in his groin. He shivered, startled, gasping, wanting more.

            That gasp punched right into John’s gut, with an intensity that startled him. Suddenly it was all too much and not enough at the same time. “Sh – Sherlock, I –”

            Holmes groaned and deepened the kiss. Heat rose in John’s body, consuming, overwhelming. He broke the kiss, sucking in air, his heart beating wildly against Holmes’ chest.

            Too hard. Holmes looked closely at John’s face, eyes too wide, face too pale, respiration too fast. “Shock?”

            John extracted his hands from Holmes’ (gorgeous, soft) curls and scrubbed them over his face. “I – um. No. Maybe. Still too much. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I told you I’m a mess. Why don’t you believe me.”

            “Because I think you’re perfect.”

            “Well, you’re a mess too, so that’s hardly a compliment.” But the words still resonated in John’s head, filled his stomach with a different kind of warmth. Similar to the one he’d felt in Holmes’ embrace last night.

            “Because I’m a freak.”

            “God, no! You don’t believe that, honestly, do you?”

            John looked up at Holmes’ cocked eyebrow and sighed. “Yeah, well played, great.” He shook his head. “This is – different. What you have is – amazing. Brilliant. What I have is deadly.”

            Holmes felt heat suffuse his face, and cursed his capillaries. “John, what you have –” he broke off, frustrated. “You know that this is not my strength. What you have – what you are – is: not alone.”

            For the second time in ten hours, the tears rolled down John’s face before he even felt them in his eyes. “Jesus, Sherlock.” But it was hushed, behind his hands, broken.

            “May I hold you again?”

            “Please?”

            A few heartbeats of silence, calm, security. And then –

            The explosion was minor, by recent standards, but John still dragged Holmes down to a crouch, shielding the taller man with his own body as he scanned the room and entryway for the source of the noise. Spotted the flames in the kitchen. “Dammit, Holmes!!”

            They managed to open the window and chase out the smoke, locate the fire extinguisher, subdue the flames, and clean up the shattered beakers with minimal destruction to the kitchen itself. Holmes made a great show of bemoaning another failed experiment, and John flicked a handful of foam at him. The laugh he gave when the goop landed in Holmes’ curls was genuine, and Holmes could not help but smile in return.

            And throw a return handful of foam.

            The next handful hit Holmes square in the chest.

            The side of John’s head.

            Another in Holmes’ hair.

            John’s stomach, splattering all over his T-shirt.

            And then they were breathless with laughter – a little strained, a little too bright, but still genuine. This time when John stepped forward with determination in his eyes, Holmes held his breath, and was prepared for the spark of electricity that shot through him. He swallowed.

            “Yes, that was very nice.”

            “Git.” They crashed together, John laughing against his mouth. Hands in his foamy hair, Holmes cradling the muscled expanse of his flatmate’s back. Catching the hem of his foamy T-shirt, lifting slowly, catching John’s eye and noting his refusal to stay the motion as Holmes stripped it off.

            Dropping it immediately to the slippery floor, Holmes braced John’s hips as he leaned forward and very gently pressed his lips to the scar lines on John’s left shoulder. His flatmate’s head fell back on a moan. “Sh- Sherlock. No one else has ever done that.”

            “Really?”

            “Really. Just you.”

            “Just me. Yes. _John._ ”

“Oh. Not here.”

            “Upstairs?”

            “No.” John swallowed hard. “Your room?”

            A quirked lip. “I suppose…”


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

            “Don’t you ever straighten your room, Holmes?”

            “Whatever for? I do most of my living in the other parts of the house. Other parts of London, too, for that matter.”

            “But you needn’t bring the other parts of London back in with you.”

            “We can’t all have exacting military precision, John.”

            “But do you have to be the exact opposite? Always the other extreme?”

            “Yes.”

            There was no response to that, so John settled for another kiss, which grew in intensity until he was pulling at Holmes’ robe, sliding his hands beneath for more skin. “I – I don’t know how this is going to go, Sherlock, I don’t know how much I can do for you, if I can –”

            “Shhh.”

            They eased onto the bed together, side by side, careful of John’s shoulder. By the time Holmes had unbuttoned John’s trousers, John had his hands in Holmes’ pants, and the consulting detective arched up into the touch, groaning. “Oh God, yes, John! More!”

            “Bossy.” But John gave him more, couldn’t stop himself from cupping the hardness there in his large palm, stroking slowly, maddeningly slow, teasing until Holmes was writhing beside him. Until Holmes began to reciprocate. Until Holmes was gripping John’s hardness in his palm, nervous, excited, feeling the firm flesh twitch in his long fingers.

            “Sherlock,” John gasped against his shoulder, his breath hot and damp against the bare skin. “I’ve thought about touching you for so long.”

            The detective moaned, unable to stop himself, rocking his hips forward into that maddening tightness of John’s fingers. John levered himself carefully forward, his tongue licking a stripe across Holmes’ chest, pausing to bite at a nipple. Holmes gasped, arched his spine up off the bed. It was too much. He couldn’t get enough. Dizzying pleasure swam through his veins, headier than cocaine, and he was terrified that it would not last. That he would not ever get enough.

            “John – I – I need –”  

            “Yes.” John’s eyes were half lidded in pleasure as he leaned closer, pressing himself more firmly into Holmes’ hand, pressing kisses and sharp little nips against Holmes’ jaw line. “What do you need? What can I give you?”

            Holmes moaned, beyond words, thrusting. His head thrashed on the pillow, black curls flying, and John thought he had never appeared more beautiful in that moment. Dropping his lips to the pale throat, John sucked a gentle love bit right over the Adam’s apple.

            Holmes’ fist tightened on John’s body as the detective came, still thrusting, still moaning, body shaking so hard that the breath stuttered out of his chest, and his vision blurred. Pleasure was a delirious ride, surrounded by the warmth and feel and smell of John Watson. Everything –the soldier’s strength, the doctor’s gentleness, the friend’s compassion – and everything more, for which Holmes did not yet have the words. Everything he was desperate to discover.

            “John.”

            The other man was bucking his hips into Holmes’ tighter grip, hands fisted into the sheets. Still catching his breath, Holmes rolled onto his side to observe the color high in John’s cheeks, eyes closed, his brow furrowed, panting. Leaned in, nuzzled the shorter man’s neck, nipped at an earlobe, listened to the strained gasps of breath. “John.” His flatmate’s forehead against his bare, sweaty chest, the tendons in his neck, the slick of sweat across his muscular arms, back. Across his scar. “Come for me, John, come just for me.”

            Orgasm crashed through him, whited out his vision, stopped his breath in his lungs, wrung him dry. Collapsing onto his back, John looked up at Holmes through bleary, satisfied eyes. For a moment they just caught their breath, together in this, together in Holmes’ bed, sated.

            Holmes leaned forward and kissed John’s temple. 


	5. Chapter 5

V.           

            “Another locked-room murder, your favorite, eh Holmes?”

            The detective did not answer as he ducked under the caution tape, then held it up for John to enter the scene as well. “Time of death?”

            “Approximately six hours ago.”

            “Any signs of forced entry?”

            “None.”

“Witnesses?”

            “None – the neighbors thought they heard a struggle, but in this weather, everyone’s windows are closed all night. Starting to get right cold at night.”

            “Yes, autumn has had that shocking effecting this year. Wife?”

            “Divorced. Four years ago. Away on a weekend with friends. Confirmed – she’s still gone.”

            “Housekeeper? Maid? Any hired help?”

            “Local girl. Lives six blocks away.”

            “And the one before her?”

            “Come again?”

            Holmes rolled his eyes and squatted near the body. “You know I abhor repeating myself, Lestrade. As much as I hate loose ends. If you refuse to provide me with sufficient information –”

            “I don’t see how –”

            “Suicide.”

            Holmes and Lestrade paused, looked up at John, who was still standing in the doorway, eyes focused on the bookshelf across the room. “And quite possibly not the only one.”

            “What do you mean, suicide and not the only one?” Lestrade approached the bookshelf, trying to see what Watson saw. Framed pictures adorned the shelves: the deceased as a young man, smartly attired in dress uniform. The deceased with his wife, standing under a bough of lilacs on their wedding day. And next to that, two more young men, dressed in combat fatigues, a much more recent photo, grinning at the camera. Tucked into the corner of that frame is a baby photo, the same wide, dimpled grin as the solder on the left; that photo had been jammed back into the frame and slammed down so hard the glass was cracked.

            “John.” Sherlock spoke so low that Lestrade could not possibly have heard him. John shook his head, his hands clasped together, fingers steady in his gloves, and continued. “I think you’ll find there’s been another suicide recently, Lestrade, if not last night as well.”

            “What are you, Holmes’ protégé?”

            “Perhaps.” John smiled gently.

            “That’s not the same man.”

            “No. It’s his son.”

            “What’s this got to do with him?”

            “Everything.” John gestured to the framed Medal of Honor hanging above the fireplace. “This is the father’s.” Then to the blank wall space beside it. “And this space for the son’s.”

            “How do you know the son’s received one?”

            “What else would deserve such a place of honor? Specially cleared, as though the medal is en route. And look – it’s arrived.” John reached into the mess on the desk, which had spilled onto the carpet, dragged down by a dying man’s hand. He gently lifted a letter and read aloud in a low, steady voice: “Dear Mr. Fishbyrne, it is our great honor to inform you that Louis Fishbyrne, Jr. has been posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor in recognition for his extraordinary acts of bravery and service to this country,” he looked up. “Et cetera, et cetera.”

            There was silence, for a moment. Lestrade cleared his throat. “But why another suicide?”

            “Inspector, it might be of interest to you to find out who the other soldier in the photograph is, and his parents, and see if his father is still living.”

            “And what makes you think you know anything about this?”

            Lestrade regretted the question immediately as soon as his eyes met John’s empty ones.

“Because the nightmares take on a reality of their own, Inspector, and when that reality comes true then the only recourse for some is to join it.”

            And John turned, cast a sharp salute to the dead soldier, and left the room.

 

            Holmes caught up with him outside the building. “John.” Dark eyes searched a calm face. “That was brilliant.”

            “My line, Sherlock.”

            “Are you alright?”

            Watson drew a deep breath, let it out. “Yes. I am. Thank you.”

            “Cab?”

            “I think not.” The first of the colorful leaves swirled at their feet as they began the walk back to Baker Street. “There hasn’t been a thunderstorm in several months.”

            “Not a significant one, no.” Holmes glanced up at the small smile hinting on John’s face. “Should I take that to mean there will be a storm tonight, then?”

            The smile broadened. “Oh, I think there might be. This afternoon, in fact. Immediately. As soon as we return to the flat.”

            Holmes reached out and tentatively took John’s gloved hand in his own. “There doesn’t need to be, you know.”

            “I know.” A pause. “Because you’ll be there anyway.”

            “Yes.”

            “I love you, too.”  

 

_Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness,_   
_Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks_   
_The unknown road still marching._

~ Walt Whitman  
from “A March in the Ranks Hard-Prest, and the Road Unknown”


End file.
